


Going Soft

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26636929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Charles in a soft and scruffy t-shirt is obviously a cry for help.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Going Soft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stregatrek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stregatrek/gifts).



The rules of fashion, and Hawk thought Klinger would have backed him up on this, stated this:  _ no one looks good in Army green _ . 

Especially not casual Army green. A mere undershirt. Cheaply made. Soft, clinging, molded over muscles in the upper arms, the chest. 

Unshaven. 

Soft lighting making stubble stand out on that patrician face. 

A dart invisible in a hand so large that seeing it perform intricate surgery was a minor miracle that merited applause (and not just from Charles himself). 

Hawk tapped Klinger, one hip braced on the jukebox, skirts swishing over his ankles, on the shoulder, then on the chin. “Close your mouth, kid. He throws that dart the wrong way, it’s gonna end up down your throat.” 

Klinger nodded, but he didn’t turn his gaze. Hawk didn’t think he was capable. “Klinger, no one looks good like that.” 

“Whatever you say, Captain, sir.” 

But when Charles threw the next to last dart, Klinger approached him in so demure a fashion Hawk couldn’t roll his eyes, because it was too much like a fairytale and Charles - clearly upset if he was appearing  _ in public  _ in a t-shirt - seemed to actually relax a little at the sight of the unit’s odd, dark-feathered duckling. 

“Did you just spell out SOS  _ in darts _ , Major?” 

Charles looked to the board. “So ‘twould seem. A sentiment you share, no?” His eyes searched Max’s dark ones. In their desire to be free of this awful place with its blood and pain, they had always been kindred spirits, loathe as the Major had once been to admit it. 

“Yeah.”

“And yet you have survived it - have endured here - longer than I.” He touched the edge of his shirt, its flower petal softness - its sheer brightness - seeming impossible. “Thrived, even, if your creations are taken into account.”

“So maybe I can give you some tips.” 

“Please.” That single syllable was spoken so softly - more breath than sound - that Klinger had to lean in to catch it. He swayed, doing so - having neglected dancing shoes for flashy heels that tied up his calves in an eye-catching pattern. 

His hands shot out, braced against Charles, felt the warmth of him through the thin cloth of the mass produced tee, many-times washed, worn, sweated through, balled up (probably) and made into a towel when needed, felt the sinew and strength of him. When he regained his balance, Max had to stop his hands from clutching; they ached with what they’d lost. Instead, the Corporal gave them the job of opening Charles’ hand, the one clenched around the dart. Without looking, he threw it over his shoulder, sent it winging right into the center of the board. There were a few appreciative whistles, but his eyes were too full with Charles in that soft shirt to notice. 

“Wanna get out of here, Major?” 

And for a moment, Charles entertained the idea of the two of them going AWOL, Klinger’s clever fingers hot-wiring a jeep, Honoria wiring money to some island country where they slept through the heat of the day and walked the coast at night… “Always, Max.” 

Halfway through the compound, Maxwell stopped and faced him. “Here’s the first thing you do. You gotta get something between you and how awful it is here.” He touched the soft shirt again (he had too, really). “This is too thin.” 

“Your dresses then?” Charles realized aloud. “The layers of petticoats, the slips and garters?” 

“Lingerie, too.” He winked. “Exactly. It’s a shield.”

“I do not think I can pull off such accoutrements, Max. I haven’t your figure.” 

“Yours is pretty great, Major,” his eyes flicked over him, downloading visual evidence of his beauty for later use and not even trying to be subtle about the act. “But that’s not what I meant. I’ll handle the frilly stuff. You handle me. Pick me up?” 

It shouldn’t have worked. 

Not for a second. 

Definitely not as the inaugurating event in a shared life. 

_ But it did _ . 

Those huge hands gathered him, lifted him, and took him to his tent, making him, at once, a shelter, a security blanket, and a good luck charm. 

It never should have worked. 

But nobody was supposed to look good in Army green, either. 

End! 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
